


Home

by psychicdreamsandangelwings



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 17:25:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3419228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychicdreamsandangelwings/pseuds/psychicdreamsandangelwings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every home Daryl's ever had is gone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home

He remembers the yellowed grass in the front yard; the broken step on the stairs he had to avoid if he wanted to remain upright; the red stain on the carpet in the living room where Merle had spilt his juice box back before Daryl was born; the broken latch on the cupboard next to the fridge that he had to jiggle to the left to open up; the hole that Daryl's best friend Mickey Darling had accidentally left when he'd kicked his wall; the chipped paint on the walls in the basement.

It burnt down when his Mama fell asleep with a cigarette in her hand one to many times.

 

He remembers the carpeted kitchen; his poster-covered walls; the cracked tile in the bathroom; the broken windowsill in his bedroom; the flickering lightbulb in the fridge; the hole in the closet door where his Dad had thrown him in a fit of rage; the trash covered coffee table left over from whatever poker party his Dad and his friends had played; the stained ceiling from all the cigarette smoke; the blood drops on the carpet left behind from the broken nose his dad had given him. 

It got left behind the second he turned 18, unable to stay in the house any longer.

 

He remembers the metal trailer; the tiny kitchen; the toilet that never seemed to work properly; the small bed that creaked with every one of his movement; the comfortable chair covered in beer stains and cigarette burns; the missing closet door; the torn up tile; the peeling ceiling paint; the picture of his mom he kept hidden his sock drawer; the sound of Merle and his buddies as they came in at three in the morning, drunk off their asses.

It was abandoned when the dead came back and started eating people.

 

He remembers the three story house; the huge wraparound porch; Dale’s RV sitting on the edge of the property; the tent he slept in; the walker filled barn; the woods he’d spent so much time in looking for Sophia; the big kitchen and the table they’d eaten some of their meals; the bedroom he was placed in after Andrea shot him.

It was attacked by a walker herd and burnt to the ground.

 

He remembers the fences; the field where Rick and Carl grew their vegetables; his perch; the cell he had eventually shared with Rick; the makeshift crib he had helped write lil Asskicker on; the graves where he’d buried his people; the library he’d spent some time in; the guard tower they’d caught Glenn and Maggie going at it in so many times; the dreary prison they had turned into their home.

It had been taken by the Governor.

 

Every home Daryl has ever had is gone.

But then again, maybe he's got this all wrong. Maybe home isn't whatever building you live in, maybe it's something else, something more. Maybe home is where Carol playfully slaps his arm and calls him pookie. Maybe it's where Michonne and Carl banter back and forth until they're in fits of giggles, making it impossible not to join in. Maybe it's where Glenn and Maggie, Sasha and Bob, curl up in the arms of the person who has their heart. Maybe it's where Rick grabs his hand, runs his fingers over Daryl's callused hands, and reminds him of everything he fights for. Maybe it’s where Eugene defends his mullet like it’s the best decision anyone could ever make. Maybe it's where Judith giggles and laughs and slaps playfully at his face. Maybe it's where Daryl wakes up in the middle of the night, traumatized by all they've lost, only to be reassured by Rick's gentle hands. Maybe it's all the little things that make up the people he's come to call his family. 

Maybe his home isn't a home at all, but the place where he's surrounded by the people he loves.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know what this is honestly, I just suddenly got the idea and I had to roll with it. I still don't know how I feel about it, but it's posted. 
> 
> Let me know what you thought.


End file.
